


The Games We Play

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Apocalypse, Apocalyptic-ish, Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Bombing, Bombs, Danger, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Forced Evacuation/Quarintine, Friends to Lovers, Guns, Killing, Knives, M/M, Male/Male, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Quarintine, Sexual Tension, Sherlock in Black leather pants, Sniper!John, Sniper!Sabrina, Sociopathic Love, Somewhat of a crack fic but only because it's so far fetched, VillFandom Characters, VillFandom references, WIP, War, female/female - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:53:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The bombs may have gone off and the buildings may have crumbled but it was fine. And, you know what? Learning that Moriarty hired two assassins to kill both of them was fine, too. And Sherlock in leather and latex was <i>definitely</i> fine. John may have multiple black leather gun straps and holders clinging to his shoulders, chests and thighs, but what really, truly stood out was the L115A3 AWM sniper rifle strapped to his back, a deadly matt black, pressing against his spine. Britain was collapsing, all deteriorating walls and gleams of pistol metal, knives and blood. And, really? It was all fine.<br/><i>It’s 2015, and the world is not ending. Britain is in chaotic upheaval, buildings blowing up and random assassinations disrupting the island. Over half the population of London had been lucky to escape before the world put Britain under quarantine. Supplies were dropped by military planes; but something was wrong. The supplies were not food, or water, or normal clothes. They were guns, and knives, and matrix-y looking clothing that should not have been even included in the supplies at all. But once mayhem and disorder took hold, destruction soon followed.</i><br/><i>And Moriarty had always loved a good show.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games We Play

Sherlock in black leather pants should have been illegal in every. Single. Country. Particularly in Britain. _Especially_ Britain.

The guns strapped to his chest and the knives on his utility belt could kill people, yes, but Sherlock in _shiny black leather pants_ could cause a whole crowd to die of heart complications. Sherlock was also in a tight, clinging long-sleeved black shirt and a pull-over hoodie with the sleeves ripped off. He had traded his blue scarf for a black bandana, which he folded and tied around his neck. When they needed to be stealthy and quiet, he’d flip up the hood over his curls and slip the bandana over his mouth and nose, so only his eyes were exposed. The look of him prowling around with a gun expertly held in his hands with that _leather clad ass_ of his made John thank the Heavens he had opted for black jeans and not the latex pants Sherlock had thrown at him when they had raided one of the dropped supply units. It was like one of his wet dreams, but deadlier. Which if he was any other person but John Watson, Seeker of Thrills, the danger would have killed his arousal, but no, it only heightened it.

_Damn it._

Sherlock thought this was _great_. Not the whole ‘we might get killed by an idiot with a gun’ thing, no, that, John had told him firmly, was not fun. But the fact that they were in constant danger, that they had to move from hiding place to hiding place, that they have (more than once) come across a dead body whether murdered or not, that, Sherlock had insisted, was _fun_. Because it was a constant puzzle, a constant play of danger, and his mind was never _not_ working.

John felt like he was in some sort of dream, or movie, or _something_ , because no one in their right mind would send supply units to be dropped in a quarantined area that contained not food or water or regular clothes, but _guns_ and _ammo_ and _knives_ and those stupid, idiotic _black leather pants_.

But apparently he was in reality, because when John had voiced this, Sherlock had chuckled and said, in a darkly amused voice, “Of course it was someone in a disturbed state of mind, John. This has Moriarty’s signature all over it. Can’t you see it? Granted, yes, it’s a bit much even for him, but I’ve always wondered if he was ever going to become psychotically crazed. And. Well. Let’s just say this is the turnout of a psychotic break.”

Great. He bombs half of London and orders unknown assassins to kill multiple government officials, all to start this, whatever _this_ was. “A particular fantasy of his”, Sherlock had informed him.

Lovely.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

They had only seen a total of two living, breathing human beings in the last two days. They _had_ seen, however, twelve dead bodies. Eight of which were murdered, Sherlock deduced, three that had died in the explosions, and one that died “because he was an idiot.” They kept inside of London, in the crumbling buildings, because John had pointed out the first day that it was more likely for buildings that did not get blown up by a bomb to actually _still_ contain a bomb. On the second day, a bomb in a building several blocks away had gone off, causing the ground to shake and also proving John right. They crept around in the day and hid at night. London, or what was left of London, was constantly covered in a dreary blanket of clouds.

John felt sort of ridiculous, because he was covered from head to toe in leather straps that held ammo and a vast collection of guns. He had three semi-automatics, two revolvers, a mousegun and the L115A3 AWM sniper rifle that was strapped to his back. Sherlock had insisted he have as many weapons as he could possibly carry. Sherlock himself carried three guns; a pistol with a silencer, a mousegun that he tucked into his (also leather lace-up) boots, and a revolver. He mostly delighted himself with multiple stiletto knives and a few hunter’s blades, as well as two daggers he hid in his boots.

In other words, they were a walking army.

They spent the first two days stashing ammo and weapons in various places in London, which meant lots of running and jumping and carrying and sneaking around. The first person they glimpsed (that was alive, mind you) was a young woman who held an AK 47 like she owned it. After a ten minute staring match between her and Sherlock from a safe eleven yards away, she lowered her riffle and called out for them to come over and talk. According to her some people had started to split and join groups. Unlike Sherlock and John, her new apparel was dark green, as were her weapons. She had been in the military as well, but in Iraq.

The second person they saw was brief and sudden. One minute they’re moving down an alley, the next they’re being ambushed by an amateur shot. John whipped the L115A3 AWM around his body from where it rested on his back so fast it was a blur. The shot was easy and quick, and although he was technically the thirteenth dead body they saw, Sherlock didn’t count him as one. He had been on a fire escape. Once he was shot (in the heart), he slid off and tumbled down to the concrete of the alley with a dull thud. John didn’t even wince as they passed the body.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

John's L115A3 AWM sniper rifle (exept his is matt black):

"What the hell is a MouseGun" you ask? Here, have a gander:


End file.
